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scratchings 5

yours, yes – this. the one you woke up moaning from, / pillow full of spit. mouth like a palsy came / laid hands on you in the night whilst / he loved you again and your bones / couldn’t hold it. and oh / it was a problem because it was only / in the dream and the dream / was not the truth, no matter what. / but you followed him anyway / around town, after school. a second chance. he was the sad boy / still. sick and willing to die, dealing / with it, you supposed, because wasn’t he back / in school again? but this was after school, and you / went the long way home / over the bridge / other side of the railway / richer side of town and he took you / through a path stitched with nettles, and / it didn’t hurt (because it was a dream)/ so he lifted up his trousers / and you lifted up your skirt (it was summer)/ and you laughed, (what was funny?) and just / before you reached the end he asked you if you’d like to sit / and of course you did (you did) / of course you’d do anything / to snap your little sea biscuit grief in half and share it / but the dream wouldn’t have it / because you woke up then / to all this mess / all these scars – more luminous / than the stars you stuck to your bedroom ceiling / which never glowed astral, only fell in the dark (you’d place them back, a faithful god) – / these flesh gutters / which belong to you, and are yours / indivisibly / yours, yes. Believe it, finally. Now, / go back / fix this (please) / please —